


Seven Minute Spin

by cereal



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Seven Minutes In Heaven, Spin the Bottle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3852736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"More like...if you can't beat 'em, cheat." Human AU, with spin the bottle/seven minutes in heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Minute Spin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lauraxtennant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lauraxtennant/gifts).



> It is lauraxxtennant’s birthday and this fic is for her birthday! Because she is wonderful and prolific and deserves all the things! And where [last year’s birthday fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1548536) was a fluffy jeans-clad TenToo Pete’s World romp ending in sexy stuff, this year’s is a fluffy jeans-clad AU romp ending in sexy stuff. Our friendship is maturing.

"Today at work I sent 34 e-mails, submitted my quarterly projections, _and_ attended a meeting about retirement planning – do you know what that means?"

"That your job is really boring?"

" _No_ , Jack, it means that I am way too old to play Seven Minutes in Heaven."

"Oh, Rose. Rose-Rose-Rose, I know you think that you're a super serious adult now, but there are two – count 'em – _two_ doctors with us here at Casa de Harkness tonight and they've both agreed."

"Martha is fine with –?"

"That's _two_ people who hold the power of life and death in their very hands, and _they_ are still going to make time to snog a stranger in a coat closet at the hands of fate."

"Okay, for the last time, John is a doctor of _physics_ , we've all known each other for at least five years, and last time I was over _Casa de Harkness_ , you yourself showed me your new trick bottle."

"Rose..."

"I'm playing, aren't I?"

"Yep."

&&.

Whatever _fate_ has up its sleeve for the evening, it's started things off being either merciful or hilarious, depending on your perspective.  

Rose figures her perspective is one of technicalities, and when she finds herself in the closet with Mickey right after the first spin of the night, she's going to use it to her advantage.

"How long did we date?"

Mickey looks confused, standing between the closet's sole two coats – a blue monstrosity that belongs to Jack and a brown monstrosity that belongs to John. "Um, a year? Year and a half?"

"Right," she says. "And how many times did we snog, do you think?"

"I don't know, hundreds?"

"Exactly. We have snogging stored up, loads of kissing already on the books. We don't need these seven minutes. I'm making a withdrawal."

"Oh. Um. Can you do that?"

"I sure can."

"And you don't want to have a snog for old times' sake?"

"I sure don't."

"Right."

&&.

It's Donna who really has this game figured out – or, rather, Donna who has _life_ figured out. Get everybody in line before playing party games, and party games become a snap.

Her first go, the bottle lands on John, and it only takes her uncontrollable laughter to know she'll respin.

Her second go, the bottle lands on Adam, and it only takes her one pointed look for Adam to return the bottle to her. And apologize.

Her third go, the bottle lands on Jack, and whatever happened in that closet, after that spin, Jack tries to propose four different times throughout the rest of the night.

Donna tells him to come back with a diamond.

&&.

Her mature professional image aside, Rose had actual, _valid_ reasons for not wanting to play tonight.

Reasons like how John's single now.

And how she's single now.

And how neither of their relationships were ever going anywhere anyway.

Because she's in love with John.

(That's the real reason.)

&&.

Martha spins Mickey and they leave the closet a full minute before the timer goes off.

Mickey looks dazed, Martha looks self-satisfied, and Rose looks on with sympathy.

Three months in, self-satisfaction really loses its appeal.

&&.

Adam spins Rose.

Rose spins her consciousness off into another dimension for seven minutes.

When it's over, her _chin_ is sore and the inside of her mouth tastes like hazelnuts.

She sets a reminder on her phone to throw out the jar of Nutella in her cupboard when she gets home.

Never again.

&&.

When it's John's turn to spin, Rose holds her breath while trying to make it look like she's not holding her breath.

She gives herself hiccups.

John spins Jack.

When they come back out, they're wearing each other's coats and demonstrate a frighteningly elaborate new handshake.

Rose wonders if she's ever had a best friend like that.

&&.

It goes on, and on, and _on_ , until it seems she's kissed everyone at the party _but_ John.

Donna's grandpa Wilf comes by for a few minutes, and Rose manages even to kiss _him_.

(On the cheek and outside of the closet, but still.)

It's almost as if fate itself is still hanging around, conspiring to make Rose Tyler suffer.

Three weeks ago, a barista forgot to charge her for a slice of lemon cake with her coffee, and Rose knew and Rose didn't say a _thing_.

If this is lemon cake retribution, she'd had to see what fate can _really_ do.

&&.

By the time the bottle is put away for good, it's because there are several more like it littering the flat. Bottles that used to be full and are now empty; friends that used to be sober and are now drunk.

Except for her.

And John.

She's not entirely clear on _his_ reasons, but her own were something like, "don't want the hangover, don't want the sick...don't want to be too drunk to remember if she finally kisses John."

Which is why, when John finds her on the tiny balcony, and he's holding a bottle of Bulmers, she's confused.

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em?" she asks, nodding at the bottle. It's still capped and she spares a second trying to remember if Bulmers is a twist-off or not – he doesn't appear to be holding a bottle opener, but John is also the exact sort of bloke that could probably open it with a shoe or a lighter or something.

He shrugs, shifting nervously on his feet. "More like...if you can't beat 'em, cheat."

"What?"

With a deep breath, he holds the bottle in one hand, and opens his other one, palm up, like he's holding a serving tray or something.

"Um. You have to tell me, all right? If you don't want to play, please tell me."

"John, wha –"

Before she can finish, he's placed the bottle sideways on his open palm, the fingers of his free hand gripping it like – like – oh my god.

Like he's going to spin it.

The balcony is dark and quiet and chilly, but it doesn't feel like that all, _she_ doesn't feel like that. She feels light and nervous and excited, she feels terrified that she's misreading this and terrified that she isn't.

"Rose..." he says, softly, catching her eye. "...is this okay?"

She nods, but the movement feels slow and disjointed, fractured by adrenaline and disbelief.

This is happening. This is really happening.

"Yeah," she breathes. "Let's – let's play."

He nods in return, the same shaky way she'd done it, and begins to gently turn the bottle on his palm.

She watches, enrapt, the way the liquid sloshes inside the glass, the way his fingers grip the label, so long and thin and just...god, just really nice-looking.

Everything smells cold, that brisk tingling scent of impending winter, but when she leans in closer, she can smell _him_. 

He smells like he always does, spicy and sweet and warm, the same smell that lingers on her shirtsleeves when they crowd up against each other at pub quizzes. The same smell that clung to her sofa cushions the last time she'd had a party. The same smell she'd found herself engulfed in when Donna had introduced them so many years ago, only to turn to ash when she'd found out he had a girlfriend. 

But he doesn't anymore, and she doesn't either, and the bottle is turning...turning...turning toward her, the party inside muted and the thump of her heart in stereo as the cap is finally pointed straight at her. 

She nods again, more for herself than anything, this is real, this is happening, yes, yes, _yes_ , but it makes John smile, a soft, bashful smile that crinkles his eyes and makes her feel adored and pretty and powerful and sexy. 

He's making that look at her – at _her_. 

Finally. 

With the tips of her fingers numb from the cold, she carefully picks up the bottle from his hand and sets it on the small round table sharing the balcony with them. The table rattles, even with just that small weight, and John breathes out a laugh. 

"Told him not to nick that," he says, his voice soft, maintaing the blanket of intimacy they've somehow draped around themselves. 

She's been in romantic restaurants and dimly lit theatres, on beautiful picnics and thoughtful adventures, but somehow, standing on Jack's shitty balcony, under a moon she can't even see properly for all the clouds, nothing has ever felt more...right.

God, she's hopeless, and it's with that thought, and in answer to John, that she grins. "I remember that night – came from a Starbucks, didn't it?"

"It did," he confirms. "Drunken theft from a Starbucks patio, the very least of Jack's crimes."

Rose laughs again, trying to pretend they're just having a conversation, that they're not both slowly edging closer to each other. 

"Surprised you remember that actually," John says, shifting a step that brings him near enough that she can literally feel him, the solid warmth of him pressing up against her. 

"What? Why wouldn't I?" she asks, the words tripping from her tongue the same way her fingers trip up his arm. He'd lost his coat somewhere, standing before her in a navy blue jumper that feels soft and looks worn.

"There was that cat...in the alley..." He's mumbling now, distracted, as she wraps her arms around his shoulders and his hands settle on her hips.

"John."

He cuts himself off, listening, waiting.

She tips her head toward the bottle. "Seven minutes?" she asks, as his mouth hovers over hers. 

"I was thinking something a lot longer," he says, the words a murmur in the tiny space between their lips. 

"Yeah?" She can't resist pressing a short kiss against him. "How much longer?"

He returns the kiss, soft and warm and the edges of his lips curling in a smile even as he does it. "Somewhere between seven minutes and forever?"

"So...eight minutes then?"

He nips at her for that. "Yes, Rose Tyler, eight minutes."

Nudging her nose with his own, he finally kisses her properly, his lips fitting against hers soft and slow. 

They kiss like that for a few long moments, angling and re-angling, but she's waited too long to be coy about this, and she opens her mouth, slipping her tongue out to lick at his bottom lip. 

He responds immediately, deepening the kiss, stroking his tongue into her mouth in a warm, hot movement so confident that it makes her stomach give a little flip. 

Whatever hesitancy they'd had, whatever banter had led them here, it's gone now, leaving her with John's tongue in her mouth, his fingers pressing into her sides as he keeps her close. 

Her own arms tighten around his shoulders, one angling enough to get a hand in his hair, tightening and pulling and, oh, god, he's made a _noise_ , a pleased, sexy little rumble somewhere in his chest or his throat and there's a throb between her legs in response. 

It's like he can sense it or something, backing her up into the low wall surrounding the balcony, and arching into her, their bodies pressed together, all hormones and heat and friction. It feels like she _is_ drunk, like the entire bloody world is drunk, all of it tilted on its axis as she arches up into him. 

He's hard and she's wet and, god, _fuck_ , everything is _incredible_ , her body straining to be closer to him, to be around him, against him, the smell of him and the heat of him and the feel of him when he slots a leg between her own and pushes up. 

She grinding down against his thigh before she can think better of it and he's so _encouraging_ , helping her along, pulling his mouth from her own to kiss her throat, nip her earlobe, suck and bite and lick and _god_ at that spot at the base of her neck until she's squirming and keening in his arms.

"Always wanted this," he mumbles. "Always. You feel so good, Rose, always, always, always."

She's trying so hard, one hand pressing tightly into the round of his shoulder, the other still knotted in his hair, her legs are tense, her entire body is straining, trying to get closer, trying to line up the seam of her jeans, the friction of his thigh and it's all so close and close and close and – 

"Fuck, _Rose_ ," he hisses, and that does it, her body tightening around his where it can, muscles spasming as she comes, her groan muffled against his jumper while her body floods with the feeling. 

"That was longer than seven minutes," she says when she finally drifts back down, the words mumbled into the warm, lickable skin of his neck. 

"I told you it would be." He's not dropped his hands from her waist, his fingers crinkling and smoothing the fabric of her shirt. 

"Should we keep the clock running?" She nips at his throat, chasing the action with her tongue, before pressing her hand against the front of his jeans.

"Oh, I think we should."

&&.

(There's a bottle of Bulmers in every place they live for the rest of their forever.

It's for spinning, not for drinking, and the rules involve nudity and all body parts except feet.

They both always win.)


End file.
